Within Spitting Distance
by Seroci
Summary: Being a Quidditch star isn't what it's made out to be. Rebellious team members and grouchy coaches have made Quidditch life ten times better for Oliver Wood. Or is it ten times worse?
1. The Proposition

A/N: Why, oh _why_ would I dare take on another project? Because when a story needs to be written, it _needs_ to be written, and you can't sleep until something's written down. And I really have no idea how I'm going to go about starting this, but it's well worth a shot, 'cause this idea has been haunting me for months now. So watch me fall into the overhaul of Harry Potter fanfiction (or, more correctly, Oliver Wood fanfiction). 

For those who are wondering, if there are those who are wondering, I am working on a non-Oliver fic. Won't say more, though.

Let the musical influences thrive!

Disclaimer…one per story, now, not one per chapter…I don't own a thing. No money being made. I'm a penniless sitar player – I mean…writer…who happens to love Oliver Wood with a passion, and admire Rowling's genius. However, a few original characters are mine and mine alone. 

**~Within Spitting Distance~**

 "I don't want to write this."

 "You do too."

 "I don't want to write this."

 "Derek Olin wants you to."

 "Tell him he can forget it."

Slim but calloused hands slapped the wooden table in front of Oliver Wood. He jumped, then glared at the firm woman before him. She'd not only burst into his room to pester him about a worthless, useless, completely pointless assignment, but she'd just caused him to drop his slice of melon onto the floor.

 "You're getting me another melon," he growled, reaching down to pick up the fallen fruit.

She scowled, brushing black hair from her dark face, and she bent to grab the melon before his hand was halfway to it. "I'm sorry, did I disturb the precious Oliver Wood's precious lunch?" She flung the melon piece at him. "I'll get you another melon once I have my answer."

He leaned forward on his elbows, covered his face with his hands. "The world doesn't want an autobiography about this Quidditch player-"

 "Oh, come now! There are plenty of autobiographies about Quidditch players, all best-sellers!"

His glare barely met her eyes through his fingers. "I didn't say _a_ Quidditch player, Lei, I said _this_ Quidditch player."

Lei drew her face close to his and hissed, "These aren't my orders, Wood. These come from Derek Olin."

 "Derek Olin. I'm shaking." He straightened, rubbing his face. "I see the geezer everyday, and not only do I see him, I listen to him bitch about faking in front of the hoop, about leaving the Keeper's box, about the wood quality of my broom – _the wood quality of my broom,_ for Pete's sake! The thing flies, and it's not good enough for him. No one's gonna care if my broom is oak or maple or painted with a mahogany finish. _And then_, when all of his shouting has finally come to some sort of end, it's _my_ turn. The geezer doesn't scare me."

 "I'm all too aware of that," Lei retorted, arms crossed. "But need I remind you that, as head coach, he has the power to retire you."

Oliver scowled, dropping his head onto the table and covering it was his arms. He knew Olin wouldn't retire him, as Lei threatened, but he also knew that benching was a completely fair option, and one that he knew too well. His inability to work with Olin landed him grounded for a game more than once. "Why," he muttered from beneath his arms, "does Olin want an autobiography from me?"

 "You're big news, Wood!"

He shook his head awkwardly. "If he wants his ruddy autobiography, why doesn't he talk to Quinn? At least a book from _him_ would make sense." It'd make complete sense; Scott Quinn, Seeker, was captain.

There was a heated silence as Lei glared at him, but he didn't raise his head. He'd wait her out. He had the patience, and more than patience, he had the motivation. He disliked both Olin and Lei, he couldn't stand either of them, but he prided himself in being able to out-wait the both of them. A smile crossed his face when she didn't say a word as she left.

His grin faded quickly when he realized he was alone. He raised his head carefully, just to make sure she was gone, before pushing himself away from the table and his barely touched lunch. 

An autobiography. Olin wanted him to write an autobiography, and he had his prized assistant asshole in charge of the project. If Oliver actually wanted to write out his memories, he'd be sure Lei would turn them down, make him write about how abusive his father had been, how he wanted to make his family proud but somehow never managed, and how his Hogwarts love had dumped him for his arch rival. She'd make him write a sap story, an angst story, one that didn't even mildly reflect his life, because a sappy angst would sell, and the blunt truth wouldn't.

He slumped in his chair, arms limp, staring ahead of him to the closed window across the room. The inn was nice, providing picturesque views of the Irish greens, but they were greens he was tired of seeing. He saw those bloody greens every day from the best view available, perched on a broomstick fifty feet in the air. At one point he would have loved that view, would have loved being so high, so free, would have loved the exhilaration of a conquered fear of heights, the thrill of living life at a dangerous pace. But he had grown tired of a game that had lost its glamour to the slimy hands of fame.

His game robes were lying on his bed, washed but wrinkled, unfolded. Their colors were bland: black and white, with naught but two magpies, one on the chest and the other on the back. The team was successful enough, having lost only one match for every five played. He'd considered it early in his Quidditch career, when he tried out for very select teams. There had been a tie between him and a Dayton Mayhill at the tryouts for the Falmouth Falcons, which Mayhill won after Oliver was accepted as reserve Keeper for the Puddlemere United. While playing for Puddlemere, he'd kept an eye on other high-ranking teams, notably the Pride of Portee, the Wigtown Wanderers, the Kenmare Kestrels, and the Montrose Magpies. He'd lost the tryout for the Prides to a Tyler Young, and he'd only visited a tryout for the Kestrels. After the Wanderers suffered a devastating loss to the Magpies, he set up an interview with the Montrose captain, Scott Quinn. Scott recommended him to Derek Olin, and he quickly replaced Alesia Snyder for Keeper, demoting Snyder to the reserve position. Not an interesting story, as far as he was concerned. He couldn't believe that Olin thought fans might enjoy reading something as simple as that. But then, he always managed to be surprised as to what fans would do, and what lengths they would go to just to get within spitting distance of him.

Groaning, he grabbed his notebook usually reserved for observations of opposing teams, tactics learned from the third coach Jason Heuer, broom pricings around the world, as well as the occasional doodle he made when he was the victim of boring, sleepless nights. Scott always gave him trouble for keeping a notebook instead of a blank book with scroll paper, but Oliver could see no difference. And besides, Muggles had, for whatever reason, put lines on their paper, which nearly put an end to his inability to write in a straight line for more than a sentence.

He opened a bottle of ink, dipped the quill tucked inside the notebook into it, scribbled a few times around the corner of the paper, then scrawled none-too-neatly 'Within Spitting Distance.'

How does one start an autobiography? Why is one even considering starting an autobiography right after he said he wouldn't? He sat back, dropping his quill on the notebook. Both Olin and Lei were crazy. A bloody autobiography. The world would supposedly know everything there was to know about Oliver Wood. There wasn't much to know, and he found himself wondering if his finding a broomstick under the Christmas tree when he was five would be worth reading. Would they want to know that he used to be deathly afraid of heights? The star Keeper for the Montrose Magpies had been terrified of anything higher than ten feet. Even if he wanted to write about, would Lei allow _that_ to get published? Would she allow a chapter about him screaming at his parents for trying to make him get on a broomstick? That might be dramatic enough for her, he thought, but it certainly wasn't something he was proud of. 

Who wants to read a book about a twenty-six-year-old who made the best of Quidditch because he was given a broom when he was five? Especially since that twenty-six-year-old didn't see the same enchantment in Quidditch that he saw ten years ago.

Ten years ago. Merlin, he felt old. He was nothing compared to Olin, who was bordering fifty-five, and even Scott had a seven year lead on him in age. But he could say that things weren't the same as they were ten years ago, and he felt old. Lei would not publish that, guaranteed. If his back didn't hurt, if he could still pull off flips and dives and insane saves at the goals, if fourteen-year-old girls could fawn at his picture in the _Daily Prophet_, then he sure as hell wasn't old. Slumped in the chair, though, staring at the words 'Within Spitting Distance,' he felt older then Olin.

He knew what he wanted to write: the flat out, blunt, boring truth. He wanted to write something that would make Lei angry with him, so he could shrug and say, "Told you so." His life wasn't worth sharing with the world. So what if the world thought he came from a messed up, alcohol-loving family? So what if the world thought he'd survived a tainted childhood so he could become a professional Quidditch player? So what if the world thought he'd done it all to make his family proud? It didn't affect his game, and wasn't that what Quidditch was all about? The game?

He could write about Quidditch tactics. Tricks he knew backwards and forwards, how to sneak your way around a foul, how to find the fake-outs in your opponent before he pulls it off. That would be worth reading. That would be worth Olin and Lei breathing down his neck. 

But a ruddy autobiography? Where was the game in that?

Closing the notebook, he stood. He stared at the robes sprawled on the unmade bed. Flying wasn't as attractive now as it had once been, but flying was better than writing. He removed his shirt, tossed it onto his chair, and briefly contemplated going out without a top, but one thought of Lei walking around the inn's grounds compelled him to slip into a light T-shirt.

~~

  


 "I could kill him!"

Neither Lei Feng's shout nor her slamming the door behind her, then opening it and slamming it shut again, was cause for the man on the double-sized bed to move. He lay on his back, head cushioned by his arms, bare of feet and chest. Lei frowned at him for a moment before deciding he wasn't worth the trouble she'd get for his sympathy.

 "This that Wood guy again?" the man asked after a moment's silence. He raised himself up on his elbows to look at Lei lazily.

Lei ignored him. She ripped off her coaching robes while asking, "Have any firewhiskey left?"

 "I could kill this guy for you, you know," the man half-suggested, lowering himself back onto the bed. 

 "Jason Lytle!" she snapped. "I need him!"

He reached into his mouth to pull a piece of breakfast from his teeth. "Oliver Wood's _so_ important to you. I get it."

Lei turned in tight circles, part of her wishing her boyfriend would kill Oliver, and part of her wishing she could kill her boyfriend. "Do you have any firewhiskey left?" she demanded.

 "Gonna pay me for it?" He ran his fingers through his shaggy brown hair.

 "It's bloody firewhiskey! Costs barely a Sickle at any bar! What in the name of Merlin would you want for it?"

 "Sorry, but there hasn't been a decent fuck between us in weeks."

Lei ceased her desperate search for firewhiskey to stare at him. His grin was cocky, surefire, and he'd begun to squirm. She rolled her eyes and stood with her arms folded, not daring to believe that the horny young man beginning to display himself had original caught her eye because of a Valentine's Day rose and a sweet, sappy note. "I've got a Sickle," she told him fiercely, "so save yourself the trouble of getting undressed." She grabbed a dragon-skin coat and flung it over her shoulder. He moaned softly, desirably, as if that would draw her attention to the bed and thus entice her, but she walked out into the inn's hall, slamming the door behind her. She could not believe him.

But he had been right: there hadn't been a decent fuck between them in weeks.

**  
**

**~~**

**  
**

Scott lobbed a poorly made Quaffle at Oliver. "An autobiography, eh?"

The throw wasn't tricky, which meant Oliver barely had to move to catch it, but it wouldn't have mattered if he'd missed it; neither man had bothered to mount their brooms.

Scott laughed as he caught Oliver's return throw, shaking his head. "Merlin Almighty, the Magpies are a long line of autobiographies! Best Quidditch players in the world-"

 "Don't flatter yourself," Oliver muttered behind an amused grin.

 "-and naturally, the best players write their life histories, and usually there's more than one version, too." Scott bounced the Quaffle between his hands, tried to roll it behind his shoulders, dropped it, shrugged, chucked it at his teammate. "All best sellers, too, Feng wasn't lying about that. But see, what she _didn't_ tell you is that those buyers are all girls who want the books only because the guy's picture is on the front. And he's usually all prettied up, too, in some uniform used only for that one shoot, and he's got make-up on. Bloody eyeliner!"

Oliver leaned back to hurl the Quaffle into the air, well over Scott's head. "You ever been asked to write somethin' like this?"

Scott shook his head and answered while trying to keep an eye on the ball in the air. "But I have been asked to write a short article on Seeker secrets for the _Witch Weekly_. Maybe they think prissy little girls with shoes taller than themselves want to know the best ways to pull off this dive. I dunno. It's beyond me."

 "Probably a commission from the Wanderers."

The Seeker tilted his head as if considering, causing a few locks of black hair to drift to one side of his face. His bangs were the only bits hanging loose, however; Anja Severin, one of the Chasers, had put the rest of his hair up in poor imitations of pigtails. 

 "Did you do it?" Oliver asked, leaning his head back to watch Scott's high throw. 

 "See, you gotta learn how to cheat." Scott smiled and winked. "Studied the Seeker from the Wasps, and wrote the article based on him." He rose to his tiptoes as he caught the Quaffle, bouncing lightly. "Now…the question is, how do you cheat out of an autobiography?"

Oliver shrugged. "I was going to write out everything that happened."

 "No child abuse? No drinking and drug dealing and early loss of virginity?"

 "I'm not a fiction writer."

Scott whistled. "Gonna piss Feng off, no lie," he muttered. He giggled suddenly, not noticing the raised eyebrow Oliver gave him. "Man, I want a camera." His eyes lit up. "Hey…hey, hey, hey, we could do that!"

Oliver twirled the Quaffle between his fingers, in turns staring at the red ball and at the Seeker. "Do what?" he asked cautiously. 

 "Make a camera to mold into your eye….oh, it'd be _perfect_! It'd take pictures when you blinked…wait, that'd be a lot of pictures…but it'd take pictures only like, say, when you _winked_, and then…I could actually see the look on Feng's face when you give her the truth! Oh, who gives a fuck about Quidditch if we could do somethin' like that?"

Oliver would have laughed if it didn't seem so possible. He knew two guys, guys he'd known since he was thirteen, who might actually have the means as well as the enthusiasm to pull it off.

**~~**

_Within Spitting Distance.__ By Oliver Wood._

_Who gives a fuck about Quidditch anyway?_

**~~**

A/N: To be continuuuuuuuued. ^.~ Okay, I'm goin' places with this one. Plaaaaaaaaces. This won't be one of my fwuffy womances, with Oliver being the heart-warming hero. *heavy sigh* I _was_ aiming for a better, longer first chapter, but compare it to some other first chapters of mine, and this is like a novel. .o Please stay tuned?


	2. To Purr, or Not to Purr?

A/N: New CD, new chapter….hey, it all works. ^.~ However, it's a parental advisory CD. Gotta be careful with my inspirations, eh? Which reminds me….at a PG-13 rating, I'd better watch my swears. But I swear (no pun intended) that sometimes a naughty word just _needs_ to be used. Naughties, naughties, let's give it up for naughties! The naughties should have a little naughty dance. So there.

Oh, I might have some expliiiiicit content. Innuendos, maybe somesing graphic…maybe this should be R. We'll see.

Yeh know, I think I enjoy writing my author's notes almost as much as the actual fic. Just goes to show how much I love to annoy you. ^.^

**~Within Spitting Distance~**

_'Within Spitting Distance.__ By Oliver Wood._

_Who gives a fuck about Quidditch anyway? _

_Or maybe the question isn't 'anyway.' Maybe it's 'anymore.'' _

It was surprising, Oliver found, that so many memories could come rushing back at him every time he picked up the feather quill, and how few of those actually made it to the paper. He had a total of twenty-two words of his autobiography written, six of which didn't count; he couldn't look Lei in the face, especially since he'd told her he had more than half the first chapter done. Her face had brightened for a few moments, and those were moments he wouldn't forget because he'd shamed himself with thoughts of how her Chinese heritage had done wonders for her beauty when she truthfully smiled. What he didn't tell her, as Scott had advised, was not only that his autobiography to date consisted of sixteen words that had nothing to do with his memories, but that the first chapter wasn't going to even be _about_ his memories; it was going to be about Quidditch, the one thing he knew was for sure. But Quidditch wasn't for sure, not anymore.

_ 'Because the world has screwed Quidditch.'_

Twenty-eight words.

He idly twirled the quill between his fingers, reading and rereading his twenty-eight word masterpiece. Lei would think it was bullshit through and through, and he smiled. Anything to see Lei's face turn red. And if it was the truth, as blunt as he knew how to put it, that was going to set Lei off into a breakdown, the truth it would be. Besides, the world had to know that he was a plain twenty-six-year-old who happened to be a little more adept at riding a broom, and possibly a little more talented and charismatic; he never knew exactly where to draw the line between known fact and compliment.

The door opened, and he jumped, twirling around in his chair with two intentions: to reach for his shirt and to double check that the intruder wasn't a Chinese asshole coach. He let out a visible sigh of relief when he saw it was the third coach, and former captain, of the Magpies, Jason Heuer.

Heuer's strides were long, due to legs that had an odd way of reminding Oliver of an unsteady foal, and it didn't take him long to reach the table. He used his height to lean over Oliver in an overpowering manner, and in his deep bass, he asked, "Do you want a cat?"

Oliver blinked. "A cat."

 "Cute and fuzzy. They tend to meow."

 "I know what a cat is."

 "Good. Do you want one?" The question sounded more like a demand, even close to an order. Heuer's mouth twitched, and Oliver laughed, forcing the smile to break out on the coach's face.

 "M'kay," Oliver told Heuer matter-of-factly, "the trick to keeping a straight face is to bite your tongue."

Heuer rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the table. "How hard?"

 "What do you mean, 'how hard'?"

 "Well, lookit," Heuer muttered, sticking his tongue out. "I'm bleeding, aren't I?"

Oliver didn't look closely, but he could tell Heuer wasn't bleeding. He shook his head and sat back in his chair, trembling occasionally as he tried not to laugh aloud. "Why do you want to know if I want a cat?"

 "My sis has a queen…." Heuer paused when Oliver's eyebrow shot up quizzically, and he leaned forward as if that would help him explain it and said, "It means she's a pregnant female, Wood."

Oliver nodded nonchalantly, crossed his arms. "Yeah," he said, "I knew that."

Shaking his head, Heuer continued, "My sis has a _pregnant female_ cat, and she's gonna give birth soon." He leaned close to Oliver again so that their noses almost touched. "That means little baby kitties come out of her butt."

Oliver covered his mouth with his hand in what he hoped was a casual manner, biting his finger to stop his chuckling.

 "So the pregnant kitty is going to have little kitties, but my sister can't exactly keep all those little kitties, and she doesn't want to give them to the Muggle animal control. So, I repeat, do you want a cat?"

 "You mean," Oliver asked, holding his hands less than a foot apart, "a baby cat? One of those fluffy, fuzzy, adorable poop-makers?"

Heuer nodded expectantly.

 "I'd have to give up precious minutes of my life to make sure it didn't poop on my bed, on my robes, on _me_-"

 "Litter box."

 "-and then I'd have to spend money to make it fat and plump and unable to walk more than a foot-"

 "Trust me, you can afford it."

 "-and _then_ I'd have to love it enough to play with it and keep it happy." Oliver sat back and closed his eyes to appear exhausted. "I'm beat just talking about it."

 "But that's the thing," Heuer said quickly, leaning even closer to the Keeper. "They're not like dogs. They can take care of themselves, even feed themselves if you leave their claws in and let them outside, and not only that, they eat mice."

Oliver met Heuer's eyes, even though it made him uncomfortably cross-eyed. "You get any closer to me," he growled, "and we'll be kissing."

Heuer planted a quick kiss on Oliver's lips before drawing back. "I won't do that again if you agree to get a cat," he threatened.

 "Are you biting your tongue?"

 "With all my life."

 "Good. Bite back your scream, too."

Heuer's eyebrows rose slowly before his eyes widened in comprehension, but he had no time to move before Oliver was on the table next to him and shoving him off. The Keeper leaped from the table and straddled his coach, taking hold of his wrists and pinning them to the floor.

 "You didn't give me time to scream," the coach muttered.

 "Still biting your tongue?"

 "Are you kidding?"

Oliver chuckled, then cleared his throat as if to hide he'd done such a thing. "Have you asked Scott about the cats?"

 "Maybe I'd tell you," Heuer grunted, "if you weren't sitting on me."

Rolling his eyes, Oliver backed away from Heuer, who stood and rolled his shoulders and neck before cracking his knuckles.

 "Scott said he'd take one, but that's only one out of the litter." Heuer glanced in Oliver's direction, then told him, "A litter's a group of kittens."

Oliver had known that, but he had no intention of letting Heuer know. Heuer was the master of twisting words to mean something that was to his advantage. And he usually shoved it in your face afterwards.

 "Are we thinking cat or no cat?"

 "You aren't going to leave me alone until I give you an answer, are you?"

Heuer grinned, blew a stray lock of rusty red hair from his face. "I can feel it's going to be a yes."

 "No."

The coach's eyes widened. "No?" he squeaked. He fell to his knees and grabbed Oliver's wrists. "Merlin Almighty, you're not going to let _Muggles_ kill a kitten because you didn't want it, right?"

Oliver shook his head firmly. "I feel sorry for that kitten, but I can't have one." He removed the other man's hands from his wrists. "Too much time, too much money…"

 "Holy mother of a mackerel, you're ruddy rich as it is! And if your salary isn't enough, that bullshit autobiography Olin's having you write will give you plenty of pocket money!"

Oliver started to ask how Heuer knew about the autobiography project before he realized that, as one of the three coaches, he would obviously know about the assignment. And he brightened. "You think it's bullshit?"

 "I'll say I'm sure if you agree to adopt a kitten."

 "No."

 "How hard could it be?"

Oliver pointed at the T-shirt that now lay on the floor and said, "I'd have to worry about cat hair _everywhere_. Can you imagine me beating out my uniform every morning before practice?"

 "First of all," Heuer started, rising, "you hardly seem to wear your shirts much anymore, so it probably doesn't matter. Second, it's not that hard to learn a repellent spell intended for cat hair and, get this, even lint."

 "Yes, the lint kills me above all." Oliver rolled his eyes. "Do you think I'd even have the patience to learn a whole new charm?"

 "I'll perform the ruddy charm, just agree to take a kitten!"

Hands on his hips, Oliver asked, "I've already said no twice."

 "That's my problem."

 "It's not your only problem."

Heuer went back to his knees and bent to kiss the Keeper's bare feet. "Do it for me? Adopt one just to make me happy?"

Oliver sighed heavily. "If I take one in, will you promise to stop kissing me?"

 "Not entirely."

 "Then no cat."

 "Fine! I promise!"

Oliver smiled.

"And, out of curiosity, how often do you wash your feet?"

~~

The firewhiskey wasn't as strong as Lei would have preferred it, but it was cheap, so it at least had an excuse going for it. Instead of a Sickle, it had actually cost only fifteen Knuts. The bottle wasn't large, either, and it looked used. At the moment, however, she didn't really care who else's lips had touched the bottle.

She had left Jason back at the inn. It was near the twenty-fifth time she'd refused to sleep with him, and he was growing upset. He mentioned something about blue balls, but when she suggested he solve the problem himself, he protested, claiming that when a woman was involved, it was ten times better. When she still refused, despite his desperate attempts to seduce her, he became angry. Had she not left the room, she was sure he would have hit her.

A heavy sigh passed her lips and she took another gulp of the cheap firewhiskey. She loved Jason, she was sure, but she'd never seen him so behave so appallingly. She'd always wanted her sex to mean something, not to be pointless. If Jason wanted a night with her in bed, he could at least say he was trying for a child; she wouldn't mind a child with him. But if all he saw her as was a way to relieve himself, he could very well forget about it.

And not only that, she'd had a disturbing dream two nights prior, the night after Oliver had told her he had most of the first chapter of his autobiography finished. She had been so close to hugging him, because that was the only good news she'd heard the past few weeks, but he'd looked uneasy just talking to her, so she shook his hand and patted his back. Yet the news wasn't enough to keep a smile on her face after they parted, and she realized with a nauseating sensation that the only time she'd smiled was with Oliver. She wanted to smile with Jason. She wanted Jason to love her again.

The firewhiskey was beginning to burn in her throat. Maybe it was stronger than she first had thought. The bartender was watching her closely, wiping down a glass for what Lei was sure was the sixteenth time.

 "Don't you have other people to pay attention to?" she demanded sharply. She was shocked to find how unsteady her voice was, and how slurred her speech sounded.

 "Closed fifteen minutes ago, love."

She shook her head slowly; shaking it too fast gave her a headache. Well, now she had the bar to herself. If she did anything stupid, the only witness was the bartender. But there was no reason for the bartender to call her 'love.' That was a pet name reserved only for Jason, even though he'd somehow switched from 'love' to 'baby.' She groaned softly and slid her hands over her face. Her elbow knocked over her glass of firewhiskey, and she thought she heard the glass shatter, but all it really did was make her more miserable. Why did everything have to be so fucked up?

And why, oh Merlin _why_, did that dream have to haunt her? She didn't remember every detail of it now, as she had when she woke up, but she did recall the worst of it. It was dark, and she was hurt and crying, she was screaming at him to go away because he hurt her, and Oliver came out of the shadows. He crouched next to her and wrapped her frail, naked body in his Quidditch robes, and while she cried, he hugged her. And she was glad to have his arms around her.

Dreaming it had been bad enough, but her waking up with the warmth inside her heart that flared when she saw Oliver's face terrified her. She loved Jason. She saw Jason's arms and fondly remembered being held firmly but gently in their embrace. She saw his eyes, though, was met by a cold block that begged for sex. His devotion had died; she was just a tool, now.

Then she watched Oliver. It was from a distance, which she was grateful for, but she watched him and she felt him hugging her, protecting her, like Jason used to. She _hated_ him. She loved Jason. Jason didn't love her.

She wanted another firewhiskey.

Olin. There was Olin to deal with, too. Oliver's autobiography assignment had been all Olin's idea, and he was so proud of it, but he wanted Lei in charge. If it flopped, it would be Lei's name that was ruined. If it was a success, Oliver would be even more of a star, and Lei would be his backup. There was no win. She'd originally wanted to dump it on Heuer; the former Chaser never sat on Lei's good side. He apparently wasn't on very good terms with Olin either, for when Lei suggested letting him take over the project, Olin nearly bit her head off. Besides, he'd have probably sided with Oliver, and the stupid thing would never get off the ground. 

But Olin was crazy to want an autobiography in the first place. And of all the players, why Oliver? She couldn't deny his talent, or his looks, but Scott Quinn had a better known name, and he was just as good-looking, and even if his smile was a little goofy, fans found it cute. And there was Ben Kaul, Chaser, who had the looks and the talent, and he was also the youngest team member. His story was more attractive, too, Lei was sure. He'd quit school for reasons that had never been explained, though most speculated drugs, and even suggested that he'd been kicked out of school or he'd flunked out. True, he did have a background that was full of drugs, but his Quidditch career kept him clean. For the most part. He'd also disappeared for months, and those months were a complete mystery to everyone, and he'd never revealed a single hint as to where he went or what he did, or why he came back with a scar across his cheek. Fangirls would fight their way to an autobiography by Ben Kaul, and not only could they swoon over his rebellious good looks, they could dream of meeting him and hooking up; dating a nineteen-year-old was much more attractive than dating a twenty-six-year-old, especially when you were seventeen. But Ben would never tell anyone about those blank months, and even if he wrote about them in a required assignment, Lei was sure he wouldn't tell the truth. 

Scott would have slapped her, or even Olin, if they proposed an autobiography. He'd come near slapping them when he heard that Oliver had to do it. One of the other Chasers, Anja Severin, would have reacted as Scott would have, which Lei found disturbingly appropriate; they were engaged, after all. The third Chaser, Dylan Orintas, might have taken the assignment, but he'd have exaggerated it to the insane degree where Olin would have to bribe him not to publish it. Dylan wasn't much to look at, but he had charms, and he knew he had charms. A good Chaser, though, even if he was a cocky bull with more ego than brain.

With Ben, Scott, Anja, and Dylan eliminated from the list, that left Oliver Wood, Taylor Beaver, and Meagan Kycia. As far as Lei was concerned, Oliver was the victim of the luck of the draw. She knew Meagan's story well, as they grew up together, and thought most of it was worth publication. Taylor she had met briefly before he joined the Magpies; her ex in China had coached Taylor's old team.

But still, why _Oliver_?

And how could she be so sure of so much, and yet sure of nothing at all? Everything was crazy, mixed up, and she was confused. All she wanted to do was have a week long nap, settle down in a large city with Jason, and have a family with three or four kids and lots of money. Quidditch could be forgotten, Oliver could be forgotten, and her back wouldn't hurt as much. Life could be nice to her just once. Just once was all she wanted. Just once.

Her head dropped onto the bar. She thought too much.

~~

Scott lay sprawled belly-up on the grass, which had begun to turn more gold than green, his elbow hiding his eyes. One arm draped over the slim form that covered his chest. His fingers lazily ran through Anja Severin's dark hair. Both would have looked deep in slumber, but each knew the other was hardly any such thing. Anja had, though, hit Scott and complained through giggles that he had been snoring. If he hadn't been so sure that she was right, he would have countered her. After all, snoring was normal; sleep-talking was something people could poke fun at.

 "Heuer tells me you're going to adopt a kitten from his sister," Anja muttered, shifting her weight slightly to nestle her head at Scott's neck. "When did we agree to get a cat?"

 "The cat's free, and I'm allergic to dogs," was Scott's garbled answer.

Anja nodded slowly, awkwardly. "If you'd just drink the stupid potion-"

 "That stuff tastes like it came from the wrong end of a pig, snidge."

She chuckled at his using to word 'snidge.' The day they met, he'd compared her to the bright golden Snitch, none too gracefully, and from Snitch evolved his comparison to the Snidget. He figured that calling her 'hun,' or 'love,' or 'dear' would probably have been more romantic, but now he wasn't so sure he'd have won her heart if he'd been romantic. Anja couldn't stand flowers, so he'd resorted to getting her bouquets of candies, and even bushels of broomstick straws and golden feathers. She hated Valentine's Day, but he always managed to get her on a supposedly casual date. And she wouldn't tolerate him, or anyone, calling her anything close to 'love.' So snidge she was, and snidge she would remain.

 "Even Muggles have remedies for allergies," she told his neck.

 "I bet they don't taste any better." A shiver ran down his spine when she kissed his Adam's apple, and she giggled. "You felt that?" he asked, peeking out from underneath the crook of his elbow.

 "I feel everything about you," she whispered, kissing him again. She smiled as he shivered again, and laying her arm across his chest, she asked, "What're we gonna do with a cat?"

He shrugged. "I figure…I mean, kids won't be for a while, so why not…why not a pet?"

 "We could get a pug, like I wanted, and you could drink the potion every week."

 "You feel everything about me, snidge, well then you're gonna feel hell once a week."

She fell silent, nodding slowly. She'd been there the last time he took the medicine, and she remained by his side while he gagged himself to get it out of his system. He'd been benched for the next game after; Olin wasn't about to let him play after he'd spent an entire night vomiting.

 "Think I'll look sexy in cat hair?" he asked.

Her hand moved to his collar bone and she massaged it slowly. "You're always sexy."

He sighed heavily. Anja didn't want a cat; she wanted a dog, but a dog was out of the question. Maybe he was trying too hard to cheer her up.

 "Can I braid your hair someday?" she asked softly.

A hard swallow slid down his throat. He let her put his black hair in thousands of pigtails and he let her put brightly colored dyes in his hair. Braiding was something he was hoping he could have avoided. "Someday," he told her.

 "I know you lie," she whispered.

 "I'd never lie to you," he said while trying to suppress a grin.   
She nodded slowly, then muttered, "Do we want a boy cat or a girl cat?"

Scott sighed. "Heuer's trying to get Oliver to take a kitten, too, so…man, if Oliver got a girl kitty, and we got a boy kitty…"

 "You really want a bunch of little animals running around?"

He shook his head, but his wide grin denied all his protests. "C'mon, think on it! A bunch of little kittens as our own…they'd be like kids!"

Anja lifted herself onto her elbows and peeled his arm from his face to look him in the eye. "Do you want kids?" He started to say something, but she covered his mouth with a slender hand. "You keep talking about kids, Scotty," she said, reaching to brush his black hair from his eyes. 

 "We could have the most gorgeous kids in the world, someday," was his soft reply. He sat up slowly, bringing her with him. Watching her intently, memorizing for the hundredth time her blue eyes, the curve of her high cheekbones, the bronze tan that always shone all year 'round. He glanced quickly at his paler arms, and grimacing, he remembered looking the mirror each morning to see a nose that looked too out of place and boring, bland brown eyes. Anja would mother beautiful kids, if only his genes didn't screw anything up.

 "You're cute, too," she whispered, almost too soft to hear. He blinked, and he barely had time to wonder briefly if she could read minds before her lips captured his and they both sank back to the ground. Her lithe form curled on top of him, wrapped tightly in his arms.

 "What would you say to two cats?" he asked cautiously.

 "You're pressing your luck, Seeker."

~~

A/N: Why aren't most of my chapters this long? *heavy sigh* I'm not sure how my original characters played out; I'm trying to break free of the typical original characters, but how do you define 'typical?' Too many questions. Also…I'm gonna have some fun with Lei…and Ben Kaul wasn't originally supposed to be a larger character, but he's calling to me, so I might pop in somethin' big about him, too. This might end up being a more character development piece than anything. My plans…they _resonate_! And then, of course, there will be juice. ^.^


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